


The One That Remains

by flowerfan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brief Memory Loss, Confusion, Fluff, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerfan/pseuds/flowerfan
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in hospital confused... but it all turns out even better than he could have dreamed.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 49
Kudos: 245





	The One That Remains

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Тот, кто останется навсегда...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26158210) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



Sherlock’s head feels heavy, and is throbbing dreadfully. There are voices nearby – he can tell they are trying to speak softly, but each sound crashes into him like storm-churned waves against a cliff. His mind is filled with fog and he can’t make sense of what he hears. Regretfully, he lets himself slip back into unconsciousness.

When he wakes again, the pain has faded to a manageable ache. He holds still, not wanting to aggravate his head again, and tries to take stock. In hospital, obviously, but with a minimum of support. He carefully shifts his toes and fingers, and, reassured that nothing catastrophic seems to have taken place, opens his eyes.

“Ah, there you are.” He hears John’s voice as his face comes blearily into focus. “Gave me quite a scare this time, love.” There’s a hand grasping tightly to his, and Sherlock quickly closes his eyes again.

Clearly he has underestimated his condition. John is stubbornly loyal, and surprisingly forgiving, but he doesn’t call Sherlock _love,_ and they don’t hold hands. Not even in hospital, not even when their world seems to be ending. He can count the times they’ve hugged on one hand (and could do so even with the loss of a few fingers). John may be getting over the grief of Mary’s betrayal, and has tentatively agreed to move back in to Baker Street, but things between them are decidedly not at the hand-holding stage, and never will be. John has made that abundantly clear on multiple occasions.

“That’s all right, then,” John says, in apparent reaction to Sherlock’s refusal to open his eyes. “Sleep as long as you want. You’re going to be fine, don’t worry.” Sherlock feels John’s fingers gently push his hair off his forehead, and it’s all he can do not to fling that taunting appendage away. “I’m here, it’s okay. You’re safe. You can rest.”

He flees into his mind palace, searching for an explanation for John’s behavior. He quickly eliminates injury to himself – that’s happened dozens of times, and never resulted in physical affection along these lines, in fact it’s much more likely to elicit a reprimand. He’s considering whether John could also have been injured in whatever case resulted in Sherlock’s own hospitalization, but he can’t imagine what would cause John to act in this manner other than some type of love potion and he’s not so far gone that he’s willing to acknowledge the possibility of such nonsense.

No, the only explanation that seems even remotely fitting is that Sherlock is caught in a dream, a dream where his deepest, most secret desires are permitted to see the light of day. A dream where John loves Sherlock.

Sherlock is considering whether he can convince his brain to stay in this dream for at least a short time, enough to measure the length of each of John’s fingers against his own, and possibly hear a few more endearments uttered in John’s quiet just-for-Sherlock voice, when his musings are interrupted by a much less welcome visitor.

“Brother mine, I know you’re not asleep.”

Sherlock hears John chuckle, and then withdraw his fingers from Sherlock’s. Sherlock tenses, forces himself not to grab at John’s hand, but he tells himself he has only dreamed it anyway and tames his unacceptable response. It can’t hurt to lose something you never really had.

John and Mycroft exchange meaningless words, something inane about poor quality coffee, and then Sherlock is alone with Mycroft.

He revises his conclusion. This isn’t a dream, it’s a nightmare, and not even a very interesting one.

“Come now, brother. Open your eyes.”

Sherlock huffs and looks up at Mycroft. Pristine suit, clean shaven, eyes no more tired than usual. Sherlock is clearly not in any unusual danger, nor is the rest of the world. 

“When will I wake?” he asks, realizing as he does that his dream Mycroft isn’t likely to know the answer any more accurately than Sherlock himself does.

Mycroft smirks. “You’re wide awake now, Sherlock.”

“I’m not.” Sherlock petulantly flops over on his side, facing away from Mycroft. If dream Mycroft isn’t going to help, he might as well go away and let dream John return. Dream John is lovely. Dream John should stay forever.

“You’ve been drugged. It’s altered you a bit but it will wear off completely soon. Shouldn’t have any lasting effects.”

“Go away.”

“I told John I’d stay until he returned, and I will do so.”

Sherlock twists and looks at Mycroft over his shoulder. “He’s coming back?”

A fond look washes over Mycroft’s face, and that more than anything convinces Sherlock that he’s dreaming. Mycroft’s face is not designed to look fond. It’s not in his programming. “Of course he’s coming back.”

Sherlock presses his face into his pillow and pouts. Mycroft is keeping something from him, but Sherlock can’t weasel it out of him in his present condition. Sherlock needs more data, wants to spring from the bed and examine the situation from every angle, but he’s bone crushingly tired and can’t seem to summon the necessary energy to do it. Maybe John will return, and Sherlock can rest with dream John holding his hand until he has recovered enough to break out of this confusion and return to reality.

John does return, bringing the aroma of coffee into the room. As Mycroft is still present, John comes around to Sherlock’s other side and draws a chair close. Sherlock squints an eye open, and sees John gazing right back at him. He quickly shuts his misbehaving eye. It won’t do to reveal too much, not without more information.

“It’s all right,” John says, his breath fluttering close against Sherlock’s face. A stale almond croissant, apparently, was consumed along with the coffee. Sherlock tosses away this unhelpful deduction and focuses on the much, much more interesting feeling of John’s hand stroking along his forehead and carding through his hair. “You’re okay. It’s just me, love.”

There it is again, that word, it doesn’t make any sense. It’s not for him, it can’t be, it never has been before. Sherlock doesn’t argue, though, he’ll take it, gratefully. John strokes his hand along Sherlock’s forehead again, and despite himself, Sherlock pushes ever so sneakily into John’s soothing touch. He’s rewarded with a soft sound and the feel of damp lips against his cheek, and he wonders if he can dream this dream forever, because it’s the best dream he’s ever had.

But John sits up, saying goodbye to Mycroft as his brother (finally) takes his leave. Now John’s hand is threading through Sherlock’s again, which is acceptable as it is John’s other hand this time, and it gives Sherlock the opportunity to gather further data, to compare this hand with the one previously examined, to shift each of his fingers carefully against the skin of John’s fingers: shorter than his own, nails neatly trimmed, callouses where expected…

Sherlock’s breath catches in his chest, and he freezes. If John notices he doesn’t say anything, just continues to hold Sherlock’s hand as a nurse engages him in vacuous small talk about the weather. But Sherlock has encountered something which sends his dream crashing down around him, which shatters his fantasy so completely that he might as well send John back to Mary and go home to Baker Street, alone and miserable as always. But wait- that’s wrong, John isn’t with Mary any more, Mary is dead, Sherlock knows this, he was just thinking about how John was putting the entire Mary debacle behind him… it occurs to him, like a beam through the fog of his mind, that whatever happened to him must have affected his memory.

Sherlock must have allowed his confusion to show on his face, because John has noticed this time (he does observe, occasionally), and is speaking in his worried doctor voice. But it’s not the same as it used to be, there’s something else going on, sentiment coloring his words. Sherlock can’t stand this, he isn’t able to deduce anything correctly in this state, it’s unacceptable and intolerable and it’s scaring him.

“Sherlock? You all right?”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, and a tear slides down his cheek. Well done, he thinks to himself. Now he’ll definitely believe you’re asleep.

“Hey, it’s okay.” John wipes the tear away with a fingertip. “Don’t cry, love. It’s really okay. Trust me. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s okay.”

Still an idiot, Sherlock thinks. That statement makes no sense. There are any number of things he can be thinking that are decidedly not okay.

“The drugs will wear off soon, Sherlock. You got a low dose, you’ll make a full recovery. Molly went over your results from the last victims, and she’s sure of it.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what Molly Hooper has to do with any of this.

“Come on, relax. Take some deep breaths for me.” John is running his hand over Sherlock’s head again, and Sherlock can feel the offending item hard against his skin. Deep breaths aren’t going to help this situation.

“Tell me what’s wrong, love. Just tell me, let me help.”

That word cuts through him, and Sherlock can no longer control himself. “You’re married,” he spits out, anger and confusion coloring his voice. “Go home to her. Stop torturing me.” He knows it doesn’t make any sense, he knows Mary is gone. But then why is John wearing a ring?

John’s hand pauses in its journey across Sherlock’s forehead, and cups his cheek. “Sherlock, open your eyes.”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Please,” John says softly, without even a hint of his Captain Watson voice, and Sherlock, helpless against this, complies.

John’s face is so dear, even with a few extra lines he doesn’t quite remember, and his eyes are shining bright as they meet Sherlock’s own.

“I am married,” he says quietly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Very happily married.” John shifts and pulls something out of his pants pocket and takes Sherlock’s hand in his own. “And so are you.”

Sherlock gasps as John holds up a ring for him to see, and then slips it on to Sherlock’s finger.

“This isn’t happening. I’m dreaming,” Sherlock insists, but John just gazes at him sweetly and presses a coffee-scented kiss to his cheek.

“Wait – stop it – John – this isn’t-”

“It’s okay, love. Just rest easy. You’ll remember soon.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock wonders if he is having a panic attack – can you have a panic attack in your dream? If you stop breathing in a dream, what happens then? Do you snap out of the dream when you die? He realizes he’s basing this particular concern on that infernal dreamsharing movie John made him watch, and drags his focus back to John. John, who is shuffling his chair even closer to Sherlock’s bed and leaning down until he’s practically embracing Sherlock.

“I wasn’t supposed to say anything until the drugs wore off, it just agitates the victims to realize that their memory is impaired. I should have realized you’d figure it out, though. My brilliant madman.” John is snuggling against Sherlock, and Sherlock can feel the rise and fall of John’s chest against his own.

“Breathe with me. Come on. Humor me.”

Sherlock does, his nose practically touching John’s cheek, warm air exchanged between them as Sherlock matches his exhalations to John’s. When the room stops spinning, he pulls his left hand out of John’s grasp, and looks at the ring John placed on his finger. He slides it off, blinking at the familiarity of the sensation, and sees the inscription. _The one which remains._

“You had a hard time believing this the first time around, too,” John says. “We each inscribed the other’s rings. Want to see mine?” John tugs his own ring off and shows it to Sherlock. Inside is written _conductor of light._

“This is a very detailed dream,” Sherlock says, returning John’s ring to him, and letting John put his own back on his finger again. It settles easily, as if Sherlock’s hand adjusted to its shape long ago.

“A good one?” John asks, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face.

“The very best,” Sherlock says seriously. He doesn’t know what to think as John snuggles – snuggles – back down against him, one arm going around his shoulders as Sherlock lies there dumbfounded. Could John be right? Could they be married? How had Sherlock possibly pulled that off, how had he convinced John Watson to trust him with his heart? It is both too incredible to believe, and at the same time… _eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth._

“All right then,” John says, tracing a finger along Sherlock’s collarbone. “Rest a bit. It’ll all come back to you soon, I promise.”

Sherlock lets himself drift off, safe and warm in a way that is perplexingly familiar. When he wakes a few hours later, his husband curled up against him, Sherlock knows this isn’t a dream. It’s his life, his treasured, improbable life, and it’s better than any dream he possibly could have imagined.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Arthur Conan Doyle's _The Sign of the Four._
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoyed this!


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